


My Only Home

by non_tiembo_mala



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Bottom Sam, Come Eating, Eating Disorders, Felching, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Masturbation, Pining, Post-Episode: s10e03 Soul Survivor, Pre-series and Early Series Flashbacks, Snowballing, Thoughts of Self-harm, Wincest - Freeform, first time in a long time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-01-18
Packaged: 2018-09-18 07:51:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9375254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/non_tiembo_mala/pseuds/non_tiembo_mala
Summary: Dean's been gone a while, running wild with a twisted soul and black eyes. When Sam finally brings him back, Dean realizes his little brother hasn't been doing well in his absence, and he has more important things to worry about than what he did as a demon.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dollylux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollylux/gifts).



> Okay, so this will probably be a rambling mess. Please bear with me. 
> 
> This is for [dollylux](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dollylux/pseuds/dollylux). I adore you, plain and simple. I owe you more than I can ever say, as a writer and also just as a woman. This is hardly the first time I've gushed at you so I'll try to keep this one brief. A couple weeks ago I got this horrible idea while I was supposed to be working on my RB (*ahem* that I _still_ have to work on... ) that I should write you something for your birthday. I knew what I wanted to write right away but I was scared to do it and scared to give it to you, but when I told my two best friends and betas about this terrible plan, Amanda quoted Love Actually, saying, "let's go get the shit kicked out of us by love!" It couldn't sum up more perfectly exactly how it feels to do this -- offer up some humble attempt at art to someone you greatly admire who inspired you to start creating in first place. This piece has not come to me easily, despite the fact that I did have a plan and an outline and some of the scenes vividly clear in my mind. For a while, I didn't think I'd finish this in time and then I'd lose my nerve all together and it'd have all been for naught. But here we are, and here it is. Happy birthday, darling. I hope it's a great one and I hope you feel so incredibly loved, because you really are, and you absolutely deserve the world ❤️
> 
> Thank you forever to my aforementioned betas. You're my cheerleaders, hand-holders, and editors. Thank you for not giving up on me no matter how much I whine, and thank you for helping me feel like this was ready to be (and worth being) posted. I couldn't do this without you [Dancing_Adrift](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Dancing_Adrift/pseuds/Dancing_Adrift) and [gluedwithgold](http://archiveofourown.org/users/gluedwithgold/pseuds/gluedwithgold) ❤️
> 
> Thank you, too, to [Jameee25](http://archiveofourown.org/users/jameee25/pseuds/jameee25), who told me all the things I needed to hear when my heart was at its weakest, and made it clear from the first that I had no real choice but to finish this and share it. 
> 
> Title from Jeff Buckley's _You & I_.

\--- October 2014

It’s like coming out of a waking nightmare. Everything – _everything_ – is clear in his mind, fresh, unforgettable, but it’s as though none of it had been real until this very moment. When the black leaves his eyes, a dark veil lifts from his vision that he didn’t even realize he’d been looking through. His soul is restored, he swears he can fucking _feel_ it, swelling as though released from a vice, and the first breath he takes after is deep and free, desperate and easy, like he hadn’t really been breathing quite right before. As his humanity takes hold, the ache in his head starts to fade, the fire in his veins subsides, and Sam is standing before him with an expression that quakes and falters. Dean blinks through the holy water that drips down his face, clearing his eyes to better look at his brother. Sam is trying so hard to smile but it doesn’t reach his eyes and it doesn’t stick. 

“Welcome back, Dean,” Sam says through twitching lips, his chest heaving a little as he tries to keep himself steady, tries to hold everything in. 

Dean is seeing – really seeing – now that he’s himself again and not too busy being a demon to notice the state of his little brother. He shakes his head to rid himself of the vestiges of headache and then he surveys Sam with real intention. His mouth goes dry and his heart clenches hard as he takes in the sight of him.

Sam looks horrible. He’s obviously hurt himself somehow, his arm or shoulder maybe, because his right arm is tightly bound in a sling. And his beautiful face is nearly sunken in, dips in the hollows of his cheeks that hint at just how much mass he’s lost. The colour in his face is almost sallow and the bags under his eyes are dark and pronounced like Dean hasn’t seen before. Dean can tell by the way his shirt hangs off his frame that he’s underweight, but it’s more than that. He’s _gaunt_. He looks like a shadow of himself, almost frail, and apart from making Dean’s stomach clench and his arms twitch with the need to wrap around his brother’s too-skinny body, it brings back haunting memories to mix with everything else Dean still has fresh in his mind. 

In the end, he has to look away. He– he just _can’t_. It’s too much, the things he only just recently said, the cruelties he can still hear ringing out in his own voice that were meant to tear at his brother’s heart. All the things he did while he was the dark, twisted version of himself – hurting people, chumming with Crowley… he’s ashamed. He feels it thick and heavy like rocks churning in his gut, and he’s hurt Sam so much – he can’t meet his brother’s eyes. 

The next few minutes are a blur. Cas and Sam untie him. He’s unsteady, weak on his feet, so they help walk him to his room. It looks exactly how he left it and that makes it harder still for Dean to look at his brother when he and Cas have him settled on the bed, propped up by his pillows. Cas leaves quickly, giving them the moment. Sam asks how he’s feeling, he thinks, but it’s almost hard to hear with everything going on in his head. He asks for food. He is hungry – almost painfully so once he notices, so it’s not untrue – but the awkward pauses, Sam clearing his throat because he doesn’t know what to say, and the gloss over his eyes because he’s close to tears – Dean can’t take it and he needs to say something to get Sam to give him some space. 

Sam brings him bags of food: a whole pie, two double cheeseburgers loaded with bacon and extra onions, chili fries, and a six-pack of beer. He’s collected himself somewhat, too, no longer on the edge he was before he left. He smiles and it’s a little more honest; he even laughs when Dean looks overwhelmed at the smorgasbord laid out on his desk, but as Dean starts to rifle through it, Sam is backing away towards the door.

“You’re not gonna stay, Sam? There’s plenty here. Have some with me.” Dean’s voice is rough and he speaks gently to keep the rumble out of it, gesturing to the food. Sam looks apologetic.

“I– I already ate, actually. And I know you must be beat, so… it’s okay. Have at ‘er. And, uh,” he pauses, his left hand on the door handle because his right is incapacitated. “Have a good night, Dean.” 

Sam holds his gaze a long moment, his lips in a tight smile before he drops his eyes and steps out, pulling the door shut behind him. 

Dean stares at the closed door a moment, long-forgotten but familiar feelings of unease creeping like worms under his skin. His own appetite wavers while the worry consumes him, but Sam has shut him out again. There’s no sense wasting this food when he needs to eat, and Sam doesn’t want to see him anyway. Not that Dean can even blame him.

“Night, Sammy…” Dean whispers to the empty room, finally tearing his eyes from the door and, resigned, settling in to his dinner. He already hopes a stomach full of food and booze will help knock him out.

\---

It’s a win. It is. Dean is human again. No matter what Cas says about the Mark, they got a win tonight. That’s the bottom line and that’s what Sam is clinging to as he walks away from his brother’s room and the aroma of greasy meat that permeates the air in hallway around it. The smell makes his stomach turn a little, but the hollow feeling in his gut is as much a comfort now as it was all those years ago, and Sam focuses on that as he grabs a bottle of whiskey from the library – Cas giving him a quiet, narrow-eyed look all the while – and makes for his own room. 

He’s exhausted, and if he’s being honest, he’s weak. All the weeks of chasing Dean, not sleeping, not eating… it’s caught up with him now that it’s finally over. His knees are shaking by the time he’s alone in his room, and he almost doesn’t make it to the bed before they give out. He sits gingerly on the edge of the bed, catches his breath before he shimmies back to lean against his pillow with the bottle in his good hand. 

He sighs as he settles and his body relaxes, sinking heavily into his mattress. He closes his eyes and just sits, and he knows drinking probably isn’t a good idea right now, but when his thoughts immediately turn to his brother and how desperately Sam wishes he were with him at this very moment, he doesn’t care. He unscrews the cap and takes a big swig, coughing a little through the burn. He wipes his mouth on his rolled up sleeve and breathes harshly, the sharp heat spreading out from the back of his throat. It’s his fault they’re like this now anyway, that they’re not _together_. He was so angry after Gadreel, and the things he said to Dean then are high on his list of regrets. He forced them apart and they haven’t come back together since. Sam hasn’t had a chance to try and fix it, not with Dean– not with the Mark and everything that’s happened. And he knows his brother will be in a dark place right now. The timing couldn’t be worse but Sam is lost without him. He’s thought of nothing else since the moment he found Dean’s bed empty and that note from the monster the Mark turned his brother into. 

Dean’s human again and Sam should eat something but he can’t. Instead he takes another sip of the whiskey and swears he can feel it collecting hot in his otherwise empty belly. He’s never had a relapse like this before, even though pushing his plate away has remained a default response for him any time they fight. If he and Dean are in the thick of it, Sam can’t eat, but usually they make up pretty quick. All the years and miles between them and the desperation has never really subsided. They never did do so well with words, anyway. They’ve always said everything they needed to without them – with touches, kisses, teeth and hands. Sam needs that right now, he needs it the way he’s always needed it, but he won’t go to Dean. He needs his big brother, but he knows that the only thing that matters is that they’re together again at all; the rest has to be Dean’s choice. He can’t ask him for this, for forgiveness, when his brother is bound to be beating himself up over everything he’s done. Sam won’t have his brother come back to him out of guilt. 

He’ll eat something tomorrow. He tells himself he will. But right now Dean still feels so far away, and Sam is comforted by the inanition of his body, the calmness of it. It consumes him in a way that rivals the ache he feels, the fierceness of his love for Dean that he struggled with so much when he was young. It’s a feeling he sought refuge in then, too. He hasn’t had to feel that way in years, not with Dean letting him in, not since they learned they were the same when it came to how they feel about each other. But then they fought and didn’t make up, and then the Mark made Dean scared, made him put distance between them, too, and then it was too late. Sam doesn’t remember the last time he really ate more than a few bites of something, but it’s been even longer since he tasted his brother’s mouth, felt Dean open him up and make him take it. The only thing he’s really hungry for is his brother. He wants to feed from him, be full of him, and Dean is _so close_ but not close enough. Sam groans thinking about it and everything hurts, his chest is tight and his heart seems to stutter. He sips at the whiskey again and his limbs are already heavy with it, his head a little fuzzy. Drinking definitely is not a good idea but Sam doubts he’ll find sleep without it. He wipes his eyes on his arm and takes another swig. He tells himself again that it’s a win, that it’ll be better tomorrow.

\--- June 1998

It’s hot, it’s nearly the end of the school year, and Sam has been alone for the better part of three weeks. Dad and Dean are on a hunt a few counties over, and with school winding down, Sam doesn’t have nearly enough to keep himself distracted. His days are primarily filled with worry and waiting. He doesn’t like to leave the motel Dad left him in if he doesn’t have to because he doesn’t want to miss it if Dean calls. He calls when he can, just to check in, and sometimes to ask Sam to dig into some lore at the local library to help with their case. Sam doesn’t really care why he calls, just that he does, just that he’s alive and well enough to do it. Sam waits all day just to be able to hear even a minute’s worth of his brother’s voice, tinny and distant through the phone.

Sam may not be old enough that John makes it common practice to bring him on hunts with them, but he isn’t a little kid anymore either. He’s fifteen and almost as tall as Dean, and he’s been dealing with the fucked-up parts of his life for more than a little while now. He makes his own distractions. He gives himself routine to help pass the time. He thoroughly cleans their room’s little kitchenette every day even though he hardly uses it, organizes the boxes of cereal or pasta and cans of vegetables or soup in the one cupboard so they’re lined up precisely even though he doesn’t eat them. The place is immaculate. Even the salt lines look clean because of how exactly Sam lays them. He reads a lot at night. Usually it’s Tolkien, because the ancient, well-loved copies of Lord of the Rings are the only books he keeps safely hidden away in his bag no matter how light Dad tells him to pack, but recently he’s been reading Dean’s copy of Slaughterhouse Five over and over again, just because he feels closer to his brother that way. He imagines the scent of his brother trapped in the pages, pictures his brother’s big hands bending the spine until he gets distracted thinking about those thick fingers somewhere else entirely. 

He’s reading when the phone rings and he practically throws the book in his scramble to get to it. He’s on his hands and knees on the bed when he reaches it, waiting for the ring pattern to confirm it’s them before he answers. It rings once and there’s a pause when the person calling hangs up, and then it rings again. Sam picks it up immediately.

“Dean?” He doesn’t mean to sound as excited as he does, but it’s been three days since they last spoke.

“Yeah, kiddo, it’s me. How’s it going?” Dean sounds happy, too, and Sam’s chest is suddenly so full it feels like he could float. He sits back against the pillow and imagines the smile on his brother’s face. He’s so relieved just to hear Dean’s voice and as he settles in he can feel himself start to get hard. He ignores it, makes a fist in the comforter with the hand not holding the receiver, and answers his brother.

“I’m fine. Bored. Nothing going on here in the middle of Buttfuck Nowhere, Iowa. What about you? How’s the hunt?” 

“We’re great, Sammy. Good news, too. Hunt’s done. We just ganked the son of a bitch. Dad’s cleaning up and then we’re hitting the road. I’ll be back tonight.”

 

“Dean, that’s great! I–” he wants to say how much he’s missed him, but the words get caught in his throat. 

There’s a weighted pause over the phone and Sam swears if he listens hard enough he can hear Dean breathing. His dick is aching, the tip making his pajamas damp just _listening_ to his brother, and Sam swallows hard, changing the subject in a weak attempt to make it stop.

“Dad, too?” he ends up asking quietly. He wants Dean to himself – always wants too much of him, really, but he’s long past being able to pretend that’s not true.

“Yeah, Sam. Dad, too.” Dean sighs on the other end, like he’s already anticipating the tension and the bitching Sam will do when Dad’s around. Sam knows Dean hates it – the way Sam just can’t seem to let anything be anymore – but he doesn’t get it, either. Sam bristles and clenches his fist a little harder in the sheets.

“Listen, there’s nothing on Dad’s radar right this second. I don’t think we’ll be taking off first thing, okay? Thinkin’ you can still finish the school year there. I’ll– I’ll talk to Dad on the way. Sound good, Einstein?” Dean’s going for teasing but Sam can hear the way he’s pleading with him, too, an unspoken request to _please just give it a rest, Sam_ when it comes to their father.

“Dean, it’s not–” Sam stops himself, pushes a breath out hard through his nose.

“Not what, Sam? Not about school, huh? What then?” There’s about a half beat before Sam can fucking _hear_ the grin spread across his brother’s face. “You got yourself a little girlfriend, Sammy? Is that it?”

Sam can’t help that even though he’s alone in the motel room he scrambles upright at that, flushing hot and immediately snapping back at his brother through the phone. “What? No, I don’t–”

“No? Not bringing some pretty little thing back to the motel to keep your dick warm?”

“Ohmygod, _Dean_ ,” Sam whines, mortified. He pushes his free hand through his hair, pulling at it as he shuts his eyes and tries to get past the simultaneous horror and thrill of his brother talking about his dick.

“Okay, okay!” Dean laughs, clearly pleased with himself and the level of Sam’s embarrassment. “Jesus, relax, kid. I’ll see you in a few hours, arrite? Use your time wisely, huh?”

Sam can picture clear as day the lewd look his brother is giving him through the phone right now and he barely stifles a groan. “Whatever, Dean. See you soon.”

He hangs up the phone and flops back on the bed, sighing. He’s still warm in the face and hard, tenting his pajama pants. He hates that Dean had to say it but it’s not about to stop him. He slides his hands down his chest, unties the tightly tied drawstring that keeps his pants from falling off his hips, then pushes them down his thighs. He sighs again as he gets a hand on his dick, squeezing to give himself some relief. 

He doesn’t take his time. He’s famished, but the only thing he craves is his brother. Everything he wants is everything he can’t have, and all the reasons why he’s a sick, messed-up fuck. He’ll never get what he needs, and with Dean coming back he’s going to be strung tight and aching and awkward. He strips himself quickly, dry and rough, just this side of painful. He likes that it hurts. He feels like it should. It doesn’t take long – it never does, not with Dean’s voice ringing in his ears – and Sam shudders and gasps as he comes, spilling over his fist and onto his stomach. He pants as the last shivery waves subside, and he slows his hand but pulls hard to milk every drop. 

His hand is covered in come when he lets go of himself, carefully as he can so that he doesn’t drop any, and it shakes violently as he brings it to his mouth. He hasn’t eaten in days. He feels completely hollow and it’s a constant, dull kind of throb at his core. It makes him feel cold, and as though he creaks when he moves, but he’s warm now, heated by his release, and it makes him feel soft, just for a moment. He spares a glance to his jizz-covered fingers before he eagerly slips them into his mouth, wishing down to his bones that it was Dean’s instead, needing it to be Dean’s. _Dean, Dean, Dean,_ he thinks desperately as he sucks and licks his hand clean. His whole body aches but the come in his belly is a new hurt. He’s so empty that he swears he can feel it coating him inside, collecting low in his stomach. He lies still on the bed, focusing on nothing else but the way the muscles of his stomach come to life, like they’re as desperate to absorb and savour this tiny bit of nourishment as Sam is to get down on his knees and coax it from his brother with his own mouth. 

He’s not sure how much longer he can live like this.

\---

A shower and a third of Slaughterhouse Five later, Sam hears the familiar rumble of the Impala as it pulls into the motel parking lot. His heart starts racing in his chest and he makes himself sit still on the bed, the book still open and propped up against his legs. He’s not a little kid anymore. It doesn’t matter how long it’s been. He’s not going to throw himself at his brother the second he gets in the door like he wants to.

He subconsciously holds his breath as the rumble gets louder and then comes to a growling stop outside their door. He hears muffled voices, the creaking of the metal frame as it dips under someone’s shifting weight, the slam of the doors. There’s a jingle of keys and the lock clicks before the door swings open and Dean saunters in, a duffel bag slung over one shoulder, his amulet catching the light on his chest, and a giant, genuine smile on his face. 

“Heya, Sammy!” he calls out as he shuts the door behind him, looking over at Sam on the bed. “Caleb called while we were on the road. Dad’s already taken off, and we get to hang out here til they wrap Caleb’s hunt, so you can finish school and everything.” 

Dean looks so glad to be the bearer of this news, so eager to make Sam happy, that Sam can’t help but feel full of relief and happiness, too. As Dean takes a few steps towards him, Sam’s reservations simply disappear and he pushes himself off the bed and launches himself at his brother, forgetting his plan to hide behind his book and try to be cool just this once. 

Dean only grins all the more as he sticks a hand out to ruffle Sam’s hair, and then he’s got his knuckles against Sam’s head and his other arm around his neck, tugging him close for a hug disguised by his completely half-assed attempt at a noogie. Sam wraps his arms around Dean’s waist and the charade falls apart, but Dean’s not put out at all. He laughs a little and drops his arms to hug Sam to him, too. It _has_ been a few weeks.

Dean is warm and smells like heaven – traces of his own sweat, leather, gunpowder and Old Spice – and Sam indulges himself a few deep breaths just because it seems like Dean is letting him. Dean’s hands and arms move over his back, wrap around his waist, and Sam doesn’t want Dean to ever let him go, but he realizes that Dean’s fingers are deliberately searching just as Dean opens his mouth. 

“Sam…” he starts, his tone cautious. He pushes Sam back so he can look at him but keeps both hands firm on Sam’s bony shoulders. “Did you run out of money?”

Sam blinks at him and immediately sputters out, “no,” before he can stop himself, because the truth will only lead to more questions. 

“No? Are you sick? Sammy, have you been eating? You–” Dean’s hands are gripping at his shoulders and now sliding down his sides as his eyes race up and down his body, really looking. Sam wants to bat his hands away but he also gets a sick thrill at having Dean’s attention, all of his focus on him, even if his brother’s voice is laced with panic now. “You’re–”

Dean stops himself, swallows hard. He doesn’t want to say it, Sam can tell. He’ll razz Sam about his hair or his books, whining to Dad about drills or his joining the school math team, but there’s a fear in his eyes right now because this is real and Dean is worried. 

“I’m fine, Dean, I swear,” Sam promises quickly, and he feels guilty as soon as the words are out of his mouth. At least he didn’t say he’d been eating. He doesn’t want to lie to Dean if he can avoid it. Dean looks unconvinced and Sam tries another tactic, something to change the subject. “If it’s just us tonight, can we order pizza? Rent a few movies and have a marathon? I swear my brain is going to start to leak out of my skull I’ve been so bored, Dean.”

Dean’s expression changes at the request, considering. “Pizza, huh?”

“Yeah, pizza. And movies. Please?” Sam pulls out the big guns, his irresistible puppy dog eyes – Dean’s words, and Sam’s _supposed_ to save those for marks and witnesses – and Dean’s eyes narrow immediately. Sam can tell Dean knows he’s being played, but then Dean laughs a little and he ruffles Sam’s hair again. 

“Alright, Sammy. Pizza it is.” 

Dean doesn’t say another word about it, but Sam feels his big brother’s eyes on him all night.

\---

Two days later, Sam is alone again. This time it’s because of the cute girl at the Wal-mart checkout with the perky tits and strawberry-scented lip gloss that Sam could smell from where he hovered awkwardly behind his brother. She had decided to get extra pouty and lay it on thick for Dean’s green eyes and his grin. Sam can’t even blame her, but he still tastes bile in his mouth when he has to watch his brother turn on the charm and listen while he asks for her number and sets up a date for later that night after her shift. They get outside the store and Dean ruffles his hand through Sam’s hair like somehow his brother making plans to ditch him for the evening is cause for his enthusiasm, too. Sam swats his hand away and runs his fingers through his hair to fix it, scowling sideways at Dean from under his bangs and Dean just laughs that big brother laugh, says something about Sam’s practiced bitchface that Sam doesn’t hear, and keeps walking. 

Dean’s been gone more than a few hours now, but before he left he whipped up spaghetti and meatsauce, paying quiet attention to how much Sam was eating. He thinks he’s subtle but Sam always knows when his brother’s eyes are on him. Before, when they were younger, Sam always had Dean’s attention. Dean always had all of Sam’s. There was nowhere else Sam wanted to be more than being chased around by his big brother or tucked up close on the couch while they watched TV, sharing blankets and wrapped up in each other in the back seat of the Impala while Dad drove them from one state to the next. But Dean got older – they both did – and things are different. Sam still wants all those things, still wants it to be just him and Dean, but even when it is just the two of them it’s hard. Sam treads carefully, keeps himself at a distance from Dean when he can manage it, but then, sometimes, it’s like nothing’s changed. It’s just them and reruns of M*A*S*H or The Love Boat on TV, a couch, Dean’s arm across Sam’s shoulders pulling him close. 

Now though, Sam is lying awake in the dark, alone. He’s uncomfortable, vaguely sick to his stomach, the spaghetti sitting heavy like a rock, weighing him down and hurting, too much so soon after too little. He’s thought about making himself throw it up, but the pain is a good distraction. If he’s focused on his stomach, he won’t be thinking about Dean with his tongue in that girl’s mouth, or the way Dean’s lips look glistening with spit and swollen from kissing. Sam groans and shifts fitfully in bed. It hurts, but it’s not enough. Sometimes it gets so difficult to keep from thinking of it, Sam’s imagination runs wild with things he could do, more sick fantasies he clings to when the hollow ache isn’t enough. 

There are knives in the kitchen, of course, and he knows how to use them. He could carve sigils into his skin, watch the lines fill with blood before they spill over. And the bathtub, there's that. He thinks about drowning. Sam imagines it could be peaceful to lose sight and sound of the world and just drift away in the silence, suffocate for real instead of the way it feels like he already is every day, the crushing weight of his love for his brother pressing down on his chest. There was that battered old cabin in Vermont last winter and the hearth was big enough Sam could have stepped inside. When it got bad then, Sam spent a lot of time sitting cross-legged in front of it, watching the flames dance and thinking about how they’d burn. There isn’t a fireplace in this motel but the kitchenette does have a stove. He’s not going to do it, he can’t. Dean would see and there’d be no explanation Sam could give to cover it up. But it feels good to think about, an alternative to the agony of thinking about his brother with someone else. 

Outside there’s a shuffle of footsteps and the jingle of a keyring just the other side of their door. Dean is sliding the key in the lock and Sam’s breathing catches in his chest, his heart thumping hard and fast and the sound of his own blood fills his ears in the otherwise quiet dark. He rolls onto his side, facing away from the door, and wills himself to be still. He doesn’t want to hear about Dean’s date, can’t handle being subjected to the play-by-play, not tonight.

He hears as Dean comes inside, closing the door behind him and standing there a moment, allowing his eyes to adjust to the lack of light. Sam can tell by the way he walks when he starts moving again that Dean is drunk. His brother all but stumbles towards their beds, kicking his boots off as he goes, and Sam can hear when Dean gets out of Dad’s old leather jacket and tosses it onto his bed. Then there’s a clink of Dean’s belt buckle as his brother fumbles with it and gets it open, shedding his jeans. Sam keeps his eyes closed and controls his breathing, keeps it even as his brother stands between their beds. Sam isn’t sure what he’s doing, he’s quiet for long enough that Sam’s curiosity almost gets the best of him, but just before he chances a look over his shoulder Dean is moving again and then Sam’s mattress is dipping down and–

Dean is crawling into bed with him. Sam’s instinct is to tense up, frozen, wondering what the hell Dean is doing, but he’s feigning sleep and forces himself to stay loose and pliant, even when Dean is scooting right behind him. He’s Sam’s big spoon like he hasn’t been in years, since they were both kids, when they used to always have to share a bed instead of like now, when Dean _has_ his own bed, he’s just not in it. His arm wraps tightly around Sam’s waist, which feels tiny under Dean’s hand. It makes Sam’s heart ache that he can’t just be small like he used to be, can’t just hide in Dean’s arms. Dean shifts and tugs Sam closer, getting Sam’s ass in his lap, and with just his boxers and Sam’s pajamas between them Sam can feel the half-hard bulge of _his brother’s dick_. Sam bites his lip to keep in the whimper that wants to escape. Dean’s nose is in his hair and his brother takes a deep breath that makes Sam shiver.

“Sammy,” Dean sighs brokenly as he settles. He reeks of whiskey and that girl’s strawberry lip gloss. It makes Sam’s stomach twist but he’s caged in place by his drunk big brother’s body and – while panic is flooding his every muscle fibre and he’s on the edge of the flight or fight response that’s telling him with a grounding urgency that he’s gotta go, he has to go, he can’t be here – Dean has him trapped. He’s weighed down by his arm and his heat and the rush of his breath warm and damp on the back of his neck. Dean gets heavier as he passes out, and he’s so much bigger than he was the last time they did this. He’s so solid and Sam just wants to be pinned underneath him, wants to strain against his weight while Dean holds him down. He lets out a shaky exhale and tries to get a grip. He’s hard enough to pound nails and he’s terrified to move the wrong way. Dean is fast asleep but Sam is wide awake, painfully aware of everywhere they’re touching, so searing hot Sam swears he could melt right into his brother. He wishes he could. 

Dean breathes open-mouthed and loud behind him, and it’s a long time before Sam’s heart stops racing and he can start to relax. It’s even longer before he finds sleep, afraid to drift off and lose this – whatever it is – for good. 

In the morning, Sam wakes before his brother, who is sure to be hungover something awful. He wants to stay crushed under Dean forever but he can only fight his full bladder for so long. Dean groans and shifts when Sam works his way out of bed, but doesn’t wake. When he eventually does, they don’t talk about it. 

\--- October 2014 

Dean can’t sleep. He’s stuffed – he could only manage an embarrassingly small piece of the pie by the time he got to it – and he’s nursing his third beer but he’s not sleepy. He’s exhausted, definitely, and worn out, all the ways he neglected and abused his body seemingly catching up with him now that he’s human again, but his mind just won’t stop. Everything new that he remembers is a fresh source of mortification, shame he feels all the way down to his bones, and the only thing that keeps his thoughts off his time as a demon is Sam. _Sam_. Even when he did this before, as a kid, even at his worst, he didn’t look as bad as he does now. Maybe that was just his youth keeping a brightness to him that helped mitigate it, but at the moment Sam is as paper-thin and run-down as Dean’s ever been. 

_Me, I did this. It’s because of me._ Dean exhales harshly and runs a hand through his hair, pulling at it a little. He just can’t get it right when it comes to his brother. All he wants – all he’s ever wanted – is to do right by Sam, but sometimes he can’t see past his own desperate need to keep his little brother all to himself. If it weren’t for him – for Gadreel, for lying – maybe they wouldn’t have fallen apart. Maybe– maybe things would have gone down differently with the Mark, with Metatron. Maybe even if they had, he’d still be wrapped up in Sam’s arms right now instead of restlessly pacing his room alone with a head full of nightmares and a heart that won’t quit aching. 

Dean isn’t drunk but he is desperate, and he doesn’t have a right to his brother’s forgiveness, not after everything he’s done, especially now, but he’s not sure he’ll be able to stop himself. He’s drowning and Sam is the only thing that’s going to keep him from going under for good. And Sam– fuck, Dean is worried about him. Whatever is tearing at him inside, whatever sent him back to this, it’s _bad_ and it’s Dean’s fault. No matter what happens between them, he has to make it up to Sam somehow, say something– do _anything_ to get Sam eating again. He’s just not sure how he’s supposed to find the words for this. Words were never really his thing, but even if they were… what could he _possibly_ say that would be enough? 

Dean grabs the bottle of whiskey off his desk and frowns to find there’s hardly a mouthful in the bottom. He unscrews the cap and finishes it, welcoming the heat as it goes down. He replaces the lid and the empty bottle on his desk and sighs. He’s going to need a lot more than that. 

\--- August 2006 

It’s been rough since Dad. Dean isn’t dealing and he knows it, just doesn’t know how to admit that out loud, certainly not to Sam. He's never been great at that. So it’s only a matter of time, of course, before things boil over.

Sam’s been quietly worrying over Dean while trying to deal himself, Dean can tell. He always knows when Sam’s watching him. Things between them have been strained, too. They’re still sharing a bed. Dean wanted to pull away but Sam wouldn’t let him, and he’ll never say it but Dean is fucking grateful for it. Sam clings to him at night and Dean can tell himself it’s for his little brother but the honest truth is it’s the only time he really finds anything close to a moment of peace. 

They find a hunt in Red Lodge, Montana, where there’s been some cattle mutilations and two decapitations. It’s been exactly a month, and Dean is actually in a good mood. Baby’s all fixed up, and the night before Sam sucked him off and he eagerly returned the favour. The sun’s up, he’s got AC/DC playing, the windows are down, and a job is waiting for them at the end of the road. It’s as good a distraction as any.

\---

Sam doesn’t like Gordon from the get-go, Dean can tell. He can read his little brother clear as day, the slight narrow in his eyes and the straight line of his lips. Dean likes him just fine, and Sam can be a prissy bitch, so Dean is mostly just amused to watch Sam sass someone who isn’t him for a change, especially when his little brother tells Gordon off for calling him ‘Sammy.’ Dean’s stomach flares hot with pride, possession, and a sharp stab of lust, and in his mind he’s already thinking about getting Sam pressed up against their motel room wall and abusing the privilege until his kid brother is strung out and begging for it – but then Sam leaves. His beer is untouched on the table and they had planned on ordering some wings for dinner. Dean lets him go, but his stomach sinks and there’s a nagging worry at the back of his mind, because Sam’s been pretty good since he was a teenager, it’s been a real long time since Dean has had any real reason to panic when it comes to Sam’s eating habits, but it hasn’t escaped Dean that if they're fighting, Sam doesn’t eat, skips meals altogether like he's no doubt doing right now. Sam doesn’t eat and Dean worries. He worries and it’s not something they’ve ever talked about – _he’s just not fucking good at talking about this shit, dammit_ – but he eventually has to give because it’s probably a dumb fight anyway and Dean will be able to finally breathe when Sam looks at him from the other side of the pillow they’re sharing, all flushed still and fucked out and beautiful and says, “I’m starving. Order in?”

\---

The evening does not go as planned. Nobody gets fucked, but Sam hits a nerve, so Dean hits him, and it goes downhill from there. By the time they’re driving away from Lenore’s farmhouse the next morning, Dean feels like shit. And not just because his lip is split, his back is bruised to hell, and his face is swelling. His whole world is turned upside down, fucking again – as if he’s not still struggling after Dad – but Sam is calm and level-headed and won’t hit him back even though he deserves it, even though he was right and Dean was wrong and Dean just didn’t want to see, about Lenore and about Dad. 

But Dean gets a few words out while they’re leaning against the roof of the car and Sam looks like he does when he gets it, when he understands that Dean is trying to apologize even though the words don’t come easy for him, and as they hit the road, Dean looks over at his brother and he knows Sam isn’t mad anymore. 

He pulls into the parking lot of a diner a block away from their motel once they get to town, turning off the engine and fixing his brother with a pointed look and raised eyebrow. “You actually gonna eat something, Sammy?” 

Sam turns to him, blinks once, and then gives him a goofy smile like Dean’s an idiot for having asked, like Sam doesn’t know that Dean knows. “Yeah, dude. C’mon.”

Dean watches as Sam unfolds himself from the car, wary, but appeased. They get their big greasy breakfasts to go. They both want to wash up and they’ve been up all night. They’re dirty, they’re tired, and neither of them feel much like being around anyone else right now.

Sam follows him into the shower after they eat, and Dean knows for sure everything is as right as it can be, given the circumstances. Dad is still dead and Dean’s black and white world has shattered into uncertain shades of gray, but his brother wolfed down a lumberjack-sized meal and is pressed up against him under the hot water, his chin hooked over Dean’s shoulder and his arms tight around his waist, quiet in a way that Dean understands means _I’m sorry, too_. 

Dean feels relieved, weaving his fingers together with Sam’s on his stomach, but it always goes like this when Dean catches Sam skipping a meal, and his nerves are still a little raw. Dean’s worry goes into overdrive and he gets a little frantic, because his brain immediately draws a line to Dean’s too-thin, wisp of a teenage brother who’d go without eating as long as he and Dad were away. Sometimes, if the hunt keeping them apart was long enough, Dean would come back and Sam would be so bony and look so delicate Dean was terrified he’d hurt him if Dad made them spar. He’d pick at his food, too, make it look like he’d eaten more than he had, but Dean started to get wise to all his tricks – he just never knew what to do about it besides try to get Sam to eat with him. It scared him then and it still scares him now, even though it’s been years since it was so bad. 

Sam kisses his shoulder and Dean spins around in the trap of his arms to hug him back, his face tucked into Sam’s neck. It’s warm and the air is thick with steam from the shower so it’s hard to breathe but Dean doesn’t mind. He can’t ask Sam about it, doesn’t know how to talk about it even though they’ve both been dancing around it forever, but he still needs reassuring. He needs to know that the young, hurting Sam he sees when he closes his eyes isn’t the one who’s wrapped around him right now; he clings to the fact that despite his memories and his fears, Sam is okay– better than, even. He came back from Stanford solid, built and fit and filled out like he never was before, and Dean closes his eyes and moves his hands over Sam’s skin. He lets the firm muscle and bulk of his brother’s healthy body change the Sam in his mind’s eye, replacing the memory that makes his heart hurt with the flesh and blood brother who would scoff at Dean’s unnecessary mother-henning, the brother who’s still kissing his shoulder and sliding his hands down the curve of Dean’s back to palm his ass and press them together. 

“Dean,” Sam says when Dean sighs, and he turns his head towards him to talk against Dean’s ear. “You know we’re good, right?”

Dean leans back at that to look his brother in the eye, and Sam looks a little concerned, but he’s also serious and giving Dean an encouraging smile. Dean will take it. 

He smiles back and lets out a small laugh as he leans up to answer against his brother’s lips, letting go of the memories for now and allowing himself to get lost in his brother’s mouth instead. “Yeah, Sammy. I think we are.”

\--- October 2014

Dean enters the library and isn’t surprised to see Cas sitting at one of the tables. His friend offers him a small smile and Dean nods – all he can really manage at the moment – and goes straight for the extra bottles of whiskey on the bar cart in the corner. Cas makes a small sound that could be a cough but is distinctly disapproving. Dean rounds on him immediately, a new bottle in hand. 

“Don’t, Cas,” Dean snaps, irritated especially since it’s not like this is new for him; Cas shouldn’t be surprised. Cas sighs and stands up.

“Dean, why do you two do this to yourselves?” Cas is tired, his voice strained as though, for all his lacking people skills, he somehow knows something his friends don’t.

Dean blinks at him quietly long enough that Cas rolls his eyes and continues. “Your brother is not doing well, Dean. You’re hardly at your best either. Neither of you can sleep and both of you are in distress. I have never understood why you’re both so quick to put distance between you when it’s the only thing that has ever helped heal you. You both need healing, Dean. Just, go to your brother. Please, for both your sakes.” 

Dean’s face burns as Cas speaks and he grits his teeth, clamping his jaw down tight and swallowing thickly. They’ve never addressed it directly, of course they haven’t, but Sam has always said that Castiel knows about them – _how can he not, Dean? He’s a freakin’ angel! And we’re not as subtle as you think we are_ – but hearing it from Cas now, Dean doesn’t know what to say. He looks away silently, doubly embarrassed because it sounds so damn simple when he puts it like that, even though a part of Dean instinctively bristles because what the fuck does he know anyway. 

Cas sighs again, exasperated, then there’s a flutter, and when Dean looks up his friend is gone, he’s alone, and– _fuck_. Dean slams the bottle down onto the table. He unscrews the cap and takes a few long pulls. He hisses at the heat and reseals the bottle, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, and then he clenches his fists on the top of the table. He wants to be angry, but as he exhales he feels deflated and he knows Cas is right. Whatever he thinks he does or doesn’t deserve, his little brother is a mess and Dean needs to take care of him, provided Sam will let him. He has to at least try. 

He stands staring at his brother’s closed door for longer than he cares to admit. He still doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say, where he’s supposed to start. The biggest mistake, the most recent? How can he atone for the kind of failings most people can’t even imagine? Dean almost loses his nerve, but then he shuts his eyes and sees Sam again, standing in front of him where he’s tied to a chair above a devil's trap. He sees all the physical evidence of his brother’s struggle, and how is he supposed to walk away from that?

He knocks on the door, pauses a beat, and tries the handle without waiting for Sam to answer. When it turns, unlocked, Dean’s heart leaps hopeful in his chest. He can’t help but hope it means what it’s always meant between them. By the time he’s stepped across the threshold, Sam has startled and is standing at the side of his bed, an open bottle of whiskey on his nightstand. 

“Dean,” he sputters out softly like it’s a surprise, blinking, and his eyes are red-rimmed. He runs a hand anxiously through his hair and Dean aches to do that, too. “You– you’re, uh. Are you– everything okay?”

Dean holds his brother’s gaze a quiet moment and then the steps aside to close the door behind him. Sam wrings his hands nervously in front of him and it kills Dean that this is where they are. How did they fall so far?

Sam is shaking, too, and Dean can’t tell if it’s because of nerves, or cold, or because he’s weak enough Dean’s afraid a good gust of wind might best him, this heartbreaking shell of the love of his life. Dean finds Sam’s eyes again and they’re bright and wide, assessing, and Dean sees there what he always did, the pleading, desperate kind of hope and adoration that Sam has always had in his eyes when he looked at Dean – at least, _before_. Dean was afraid he’d never see it again.

“D-Dean?” Sam stutters as Dean steps closer to him.

“No, Sam, I’m not okay,” Dean finally answers, coming to stand right in front of him. 

Sam looks surprised again, like the admission is as unexpected as it is true. “We– we’ll figure it out. You’ll be okay, Dean, I promise. Just– time, give it some–” 

“Sam,” Dean cuts him off, reaching for both his brother’s fidgeting hands with one of his own. Sam’s right arm is still held immobile in its sling but Dean is holding his brother’s long fingers and Sam quiets as Dean’s other hand comes up to cup his jaw, his thumb sliding over his cheek. 

“You’re not okay either,” Dean whispers. It’s not a question, and Dean knows Sam understands what he’s saying the moment he shuts his eyes and lets his head be heavy against Dean’s palm. Dean can feel Sam’s heartbeat against his fingertips where they’re pressing into his throat and Sam lets out this tiny breath, this broken sound, as he leans into him; it’s all the confirmation Dean needs. He tilts Sam’s face up because his little brother has made himself small somehow, hunched or stooped with his chin down, and he kisses him. It’s been so, so long and Dean can’t begin to keep up with the way he needs to drown in Sam, get lost in him completely, but he starts gently. Sam does whimper now, kissing him back just as soft and eager. He tastes like the same whiskey Dean’s been drinking but all Dean wants now is the taste of his brother. He eases his tongue between Sam’s lips, searching him out, but Sam is trembling and it makes Dean pause. He pulls back and his brother chases his mouth.

“What’s this for, Sam?” Dean breathes the question against his brother’s skin while running his fingers over the edge of the sling at Sam’s wrist. “Can I take it off?”

“Dislocated my shoulder,” Sam answers, just as hushed. “And yeah.”

“Okay then.” Dean kisses him quickly. “Sit down, would ya?”

Sam sits on the edge of his bed, head tilted back and his eyes on Dean while he nudges Sam’s knees apart. Dean stands between them and steps in close to lean over Sam’s shoulder and start to undo the straps on the back. Crowded by Dean’s body, Sam leans his face into Dean’s stomach and sighs, his other hand on Dean’s hip and holding on tightly. Dean is especially careful as he undoes the sling and slips it off. Sam keeps his arm folded against his body as Dean sets aside the sling on the desk, and when Dean turns back to him, he seems even smaller without it on.

The sight of Sam sitting there cradling his arm, looking so little and broken makes Dean choke a little on the sudden rush of emotions – worry, guilt, love – and he clears his throat, rubbing a hand down his face. Sam doesn’t miss it and his cheeks flush as he drops his gaze.

Dean starts to strip then, toeing off his boots. Sam looks up at the clinking of Dean’s belt and his face gets a little more red. Dean tracks the movement in his throat as he swallows, not taking his eyes off Sam for longer than it takes to peel his black t-shirt over his head. He’s blushing a little, too, by the time he’s standing there naked, the evidence of his want bobbing heavily between his legs. They used to know each other’s bodies better than their own; Dean doesn’t doubt he still knows Sam, but it’s fitting that he feels a little exposed and vulnerable while Sam sits there, because he knows this next bit is going to be hard for Sam. 

“Lay back, Sammy,” Dean rumbles, his voice soft and low. Sam does look nervous when he finds Dean’s eyes again but he does as he’s asked, leaving his boots on the floor by his bed as he shimmies back, protecting his arm. As Sam settles against his pillows, he keeps his eyes on Dean’s, and Dean wants to fall apart at the way Sam’s breath is short and shaking from his chest. _I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m so sorry Sammy_ repeats in his mind like an echo of his heartbeat but he’s not sure where to begin forming the words out loud. Instead, he knees onto the bed and moves deliberately towards his little brother. 

Sam instinctively spreads his legs apart to make room for Dean, and he tilts his chin up to beg Dean for his mouth as he gets closer. Dean kisses him, on his hands and knees above him, a fist braced in the mattress on either side of his brother’s shoulders, and it’s not chaste or quick now. Sam opens up for him immediately, moaning quiet in the back of his throat, and his hand is on the back of Dean’s neck, clinging to him desperately. They kiss like they’re trying to stop being two separate people. Sam makes space for him and sucks his tongue hard like he’ll get more than just the taste of Dean’s spit from it. Dean groans at the pull and his dick throbs in time to the way Sam nurses from him, precome oozing from the tip. 

Dean reaches for the first button on Sam’s shirt, fumbling a little because he won’t break their kiss, but once his fingers start to work it open Sam gasps and stills underneath him. His good hand flies down to catch Dean’s and make it stop.

“ _Dean_...” Sam whines quietly, his grip on Dean’s fingers desperate. 

“Sammy, please. Don’t hide from me. You– you gotta let me see,” he pleads gently, nudging Sam’s nose with his own, dragging his lips across the beginnings of Sam’s stubble at the corner of his mouth. Sam’s hold on him remains tight another moment before Sam sighs brokenly, almost a sob. He lets go of Dean’s hand and turns his head away, bringing his arm up to cover his eyes. He nods into his elbow and Dean kisses his cheek before sitting back on his haunches to free up both hands for the task. 

Dean unbuttons his brother’s shirt and there’s nothing underneath; he figures the usual t-shirt might be tricky to get into alone with a busted shoulder. Sam leans forward at Dean’s urging but adamantly looks away, eyes shut tight while Dean gently pulls off his sleeves. He settles back down against the pillow with his bad arm tucked up along his side and his other back over his face. Dean has to bite the inside of his mouth hard to not make a sound.

Sam’s frame is still muscular but he’s so lean that it seems like that’s all there is clinging to his very visible skeleton. His collarbone is bold against the valleys that surround it and while his abs are prominent, too, Dean can watch the way his ribcage expands and each rib shifts apart as his brother inhales. His hip bones, which were always cut so pretty, look damn near dangerous the way they jut out. His belt is cinched at the last hole so it wraps around to the loop on the back side of his hip and there’s still a space between his stomach and the front of his jeans because he’s lying down. Dean rubs a hand down his face again to hide the way his eyes burn, exhales slowly to keep himself steady.

Sam squirms on the bed and huffs into the silence between them, his face still hidden. “Dean, d-don’t.”

“Shh, Sam,” Dean manages to get out. He reaches for his brother’s belt and undoes it, along with the button and zipper on his jeans, though something tells him he wouldn’t even have to bother. He finishes stripping him quietly, backing up to pull off Sam’s pants and briefs. Sam’s dick falls back against his stomach, half-hard and still so perfect Dean can’t help that his mouth waters at the sight of it. He settles back between Sam’s splayed knees and feels himself get pulled under the tsunami of guilt that it seems he can only weather so long. 

He gently reaches for Sam’s hip bones and Sam startles like he’s been shocked when Dean places his hands there. Dean can see the way Sam wills himself to stay still as Dean starts to smooth his thumbs along the inside ridge, soft and easy and what he hopes is reassuring. He leans down and kisses them, too, both sides, and it’s not like how they usually are at all, biting and sucking hard to mark and make bruises. This is different, because the last time Sam looked like this, he was 15 and he was suffering alone because Dean didn’t know, he couldn’t have possibly guessed that Sam was just like him, broken inside for a love that doesn’t make sense to anyone but them. He’s not alone now and Dean does love him, more every fucking day, and he needs Sam to know it. They’re both broken, but if Dean can put the pieces of them back together he’s going to spend the rest of his life trying to do it.

He doesn’t realize that he’s mumbling “I’m sorry” over and over against Sam’s skin until his kisses have climbed up Sam’s concave stomach and the ladder of his ribs and Sam is trying to shush him. Dean’s lips are wet and salty and as he licks them he realizes he’s crying, too. Sam uncovers his face in favour of placing his hand on the back of Dean’s head.

“Dean, please. It– it's not your fault. It was never your fault. It's me. It has always been me. I was a messed up kid who didn’t know how to cope, I was so fucking in love with you, and then I grew up and I learned how to be okay and we got together and it was so much _better_ than okay. But after everything that happened– I didn’t know what to do without you, I was so lost, and it was so much worse because– I did this, when I pushed you away again, and– I’m sorry for that, Dean. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry for so much."

Dean looks up at Sam from where he’s still kissing the centre of his chest and Sam’s eyes are watery, too, silent tracks of tears glistening down the sides of his face. Dean sighs because of course Sam is going to try to take this off him, make it less about Dean even though he was the one who wasn’t here to take care of him. But he’s here now. 

“Sam,” Dean shakes his head, doesn’t want Sam taking all this on himself. There’s so much Dean could say, so much he could apologize for, too, but Sam has already said more than he needed to. Wherever they stood before the Mark, before he was a demon, Sam is standing with him now, and there’s only one thing Dean has been trying to do for his entire life, that he’ll keep trying to do forever. “Let me take care of you, little brother?”

Sam sobs and nods, smiling big and open, and his hand slips down to Dean’s neck to pull him in. Dean goes easily under Sam’s hand and leans down to kiss him again. 

“Okay baby,” he murmurs into his mouth. “I got you. I got you.”

Sam whimpers when Dean edges his fingers between their lips and eases two into Sam’s mouth. Sam sucks on them unprompted, his mouth closing around them warm and tight, and his tongue rubs against them, teasing like it’s Dean’s dick instead. Dean slowly pulls his fingers out and Sam pushes with his tongue all the while, trying to get more spit to pool on top of them, trying to get them really wet. 

Dean kisses at his swollen lips once more before sitting back again. He taps at the inside of Sam’s thigh and his brother pulls his knees apart and up, sighing as he exposes himself to Dean’s view. He hooks his good arm under his left knee to keep it pulled back and he’s all the way hard now, his dick flushed full and dark against his tummy. Dean wraps his hand around it in an easy fist that makes Sam suck in a breath, and he seeks out Sam’s hole with his spit-soaked fingers. He can feel the ring of muscle pucker at his touch, flinching tighter before Sam exhales and makes himself relax. Dean rubs at it gently, painting it with Sam’s spit and kneading it with his knuckles. Sam shifts fitfully, pulling at his leg like he can somehow give Dean more if he tries – like he’s not already as bent in two as he can be – even though his other arm is still tucked up so he doesn’t jostle his shoulder too much. 

Dean doesn’t tease long; after everything that’s happened, after how long it’s been, neither of them can stand it. He presses against the furl of muscle and sinks in, just the tip of his finger. He starts to ease it in and Sam’s breath gets short and choppy, his chest heaving. His head falls back and he looks absolutely wrecked as he cants his hips down to try and swallow Dean’s finger faster. When he starts choking out Dean’s name, pleading, Dean knows what he’s asking for. Dean pulls his hand back only to return with two fingers this time, and Sam cries out but Dean knows every sound his brother makes, knows that when Sam’s face gets tight like that it hurts but it’s everything Sam wants it to be. They both like a little pain with their pleasure. 

Sam is hot and tight inside and Dean’s dick drips onto his thigh as he keeps working his brother open, fucking him with his fingers and stretching them out to loosen him up and make room for himself. Sam writhes and whines on the bed above him, shudders whenever Dean finds his prostate and teases him. The third finger is dry and spit only goes so far, so Dean slows down, goes back in easy to let Sam adjust, even though he winces and asks for more in the same breath. 

“God, _Sam_ ,” Dean moans as his brother’s scorching insides squeeze his fingers.

“Dean, _please_ ,” Sam begs, and Dean can’t wait anymore either. He needs to be inside Sam _now_. He withdraws his fingers and when Sam whimpers at the loss he leans down to kiss the inside of his thigh before going looking for the lube. It’s in the right nightstand drawer like it always is and Dean wastes no time opening the bottle and slicking himself up. 

He gets himself in position and, with great effort, he pauses with the head of his cock pressed to Sam’s hole. “Your shoulder going to be okay?” He checks quickly, nodding towards it.

“It’s fine, Dean, please. I– I need you. I can’t– you gotta–” Sam is pressing down with his hips, trying to edge Dean inside. He’s in that desperate place where that big, college-boy brain can’t put together a whole sentence, the place that tells Dean everything’s going to be okay between them – _how could they ever think they’d survive without this_ – and Dean can’t help but grin, deliriously, unfairly happy because he gets it: nothing that happened before matters anymore. This is their reset and this love between them is the only thing that ever matters. 

“Arrite, Sammy,” he laughs, breathless, and he pushes in. Sam groans and Dean hums happily as he sinks into that familiar heat. He feels like he’s been away from home for so long, but as he disappears inside his brother’s body, he’s finally, _finally_ back. 

He bottoms out and gets himself spread over his brother so he can still kiss him and Sam can let his legs rest on his back, folded over his shoulders instead of holding them up with his good arm. Sam’s now free hand is clutching at the short hairs on the back of Dean’s head. Dean can feel himself start to sweat all over just from being buried inside his brother, and he’s already panting as he kisses at Sam’s mouth, staying still to let Sam’s body accommodate him. 

Sam goes at his lips like he’s trying to devour him, big, open-mouthed kisses with teeth and tongue and warm breath, slick lips and what can only be hunger. The ferocity of it makes Dean lightheaded and he tries to give back as good as he gets, but when Sam starts to shift his hips under him, whining as he paws at Dean’s shoulders, Dean leaves the kissing to Sam and really starts to move. 

Dean pulls back and punches in hard, forcing the air out of his little brother in a broken grunt. Sam moans when Dean grinds his hips in, trying to bury himself farther inside. 

“Sam, Sammy, sweetheart. D’you feel me?” Dean practically purrs, and Sam nods under him, his hair moving in a mess around his head on the pillow, sticking to his face where the pieces are small enough and there’s enough sweat to keep them.

“I feel you, big brother,” Sam gasps. “I feel you, _fuck_. Miss– missed you. I was so afraid I– I thought–” 

Sam chokes on a sob and Dean knows what he thought, knows Sam’s fears, because they were his, too. “I’m here, Sam. I’m here. We’re gonna be okay. You and me, baby boy, it’s all there is, arrite?”

“Okay. Okay, Dean,” Sam agrees, still pulling at his neck and urging him on by rolling his hips. “Lemme feel you, Dean, need to feel you. Fuck–”

Dean cuts him off by slamming back in hard. He doesn’t wait anymore but instead settles into a punishing rhythm. He wants to hurt when this over, wants Sam to ache for the way Dean has carved into him, and he doesn’t hold back. Sam is coming apart underneath him, his nails digging into Dean’s skin, and he’s making all the best noises, little desperate whimpers and an endless stream of Dean’s name repeated like a prayer. Sweat drips off Dean’s face onto Sam’s and Dean just doesn’t let up, pounding into his brother as if there’s a way to make them both whole again if only he does it hard enough, gets deep enough; he feels himself getting close, his balls heavy and tight where they slap against Sam’s ass and he can’t help the delusional thought that if he could just come enough, he could fill Sam up, make him fill out so he’s healthy and strong again. Dean wants to nourish him, wants to _be_ his nourishment, feed his little brother from his own body because he wants to be all that Sam needs. 

Just thinking it makes him feel like he’s spiralling out of control. He’s holding himself up with both fists in the bed but he needs Sam to come first, wants to feel him come on his cock. 

“Touch yourself, baby, please. Need you to come. Gotta feel you,” Dean all but growls into the hot, close space between their mouths, and Sam unhooks his fingers from his shoulder to move his trembling hand between them. “That’s it, Sammy, c’mon.” 

It doesn’t take Sam long. He can’t get more than a few strokes in before he’s keening, crying out Dean’s name while he spills over his hand and stomach, his hot, tight insides getting tighter, contracting around Dean in time with each new pulse of come. 

“ _Fuck _,” Dean grunts as he comes, too, while Sam’s still in the final throes of his own orgasm. He’s been feeling it build but it still hits him like a semi-trailer to the chest, making it hard to breathe as his body tenses up and starts to empty into his brother. His rhythm is shot and he slows down but Dean keeps fucking his hips, pushing his dick in deep, desperate to fill Sam up with every last drop he’s got to give.__

__Sam is loose and lax beneath him now, and when he lets himself go and brings his hand up, Dean feels like he could get high off the smell of his brother’s jizz-covered fingers. He’s still inside him when he puts his weight on one hand and reaches for Sam’s wrist, bringing the mess close enough for him lick. Sam sighs as Dean laps it up, sucking each of his fingers into his mouth to be sure all the little brother taste he’s been missing so much has been lovingly lifted from his hand, not a bit left behind. Only then does he let Sam’s wrist go, and Sam reaches for him to pull him into a kiss, to taste himself on Dean’s tongue._ _

__“Hungry yet, Sammy?” Dean whispers when he leans back. Sam gives him a small, easy smile even though the colour in his cheeks seems to deepen._ _

__“Always hungry for you, Dean,” he says sweetly, his lashes fluttering low and _fuck_ – he’s that kid again, the one that was pink-cheeked and fidgety like he was shy and innocent even though he’s wanted nothing but all of Dean’s filth since day one and always gone ahead and asked for it._ _

__Dean groans and sits back, slipping free from his brother’s body, and wastes no time shimmying down the bed. “Keep ‘em up, Sam, just another minute,” he says as he gets out from under Sam’s knees and keeps them back at his brother’s shoulders, wrapping his brother’s good arm underneath them._ _

__“Oh my God, _Dean_ ,” Sam exhales in a rush because he knows what’s coming and Dean knows what this does to him. Right now especially, Dean understands. He wishes they could live off each other, too. _ _

__Dean lays down on his stomach and there’s a bit of his come dripping out of Sam’s puffy, wrecked asshole. He gets one hand on Sam’s balls, pushing them up and making room for himself to go in tongue first and catch it. “Relax, baby boy. Open up for me.”_ _

__He wiggles the tip of his tongue against his hole and it opens right up, no resistance after having just taken Dean’s dick, but it’s just a tease. He gets his mouth on it next and starts sucking, taking his come back from where it’s trapped inside Sam’s body. Sam moans above him on the bed, his head thrashing on the pillow and his body shaking, and Dean just keeps sucking, gathering a big mouthful of come until he’s sure Sam’s got nothing more to give him._ _

__It’s heavy and thick on his tongue and Dean is jittery and eager as he gets back on his knees and helps Sam ease his legs down to the bed on either side of him. Sam’s eyes are fixed on him, never leaving his face as Dean leans back down to cover Sam’s body with his own, to be his shelter. Propped up on one elbow, he uses his other hand to smooth back Sam’s hair from his face, tucking it behind his ear, and he loves how Sam shivers at the touch. Sam’s hand finds his arm and tugs it down, quietly pleading for Dean to just give it to him._ _

__Dean finally smiles down at him softly and Sam opens his mouth, and sticks his tongue out. Now more than usual Sam looks like a baby bird, his wrists and waist and shoulders all delicate because he’s so thin, but if Sam’s the baby then that makes Dean the mama. Dean can’t help but always make that association in his head when they do this and he used to think it should bother him, how hot it makes him, but Dean’s life is defined by taking care of his little brother so he doesn’t think he ever really stood a chance. He’ll never, ever get over how much it ruins him to feed Sam like this, to even for just a moment be the thing that nourishes him. He leans a little to get right above Sam’s eager mouth and then he opens his own, the creamed, churned up contents oozing out thick, and he lets gravity do the rest, dropping it down onto Sam’s waiting tongue._ _

__Once Dean has given it all up, he settles back on his side to watch, because when Sam finally closes his mouth again he shuts his eyes, too, and looks more sated and happy than Dean has ever seen him. Whatever Dean is made of, he figures they really are made of the same, because he’s pretty sure Sam gets off on this even more than he does. He watches his brother’s throat work as he slowly, bit by bit, swallows the mess of Dean’s come and spit from his mouth, and when he parts his lips to suck in a breath, his lashes flutter and his eyes are glassy and unfocused until they land on Dean. Sam smiles and it’s genuine, his dimples deep in his pink cheeks, and Dean can’t help but smile back before he kisses him, moaning for the revelation that is his brother’s mouth and the taste of both of them inside it._ _

__\---_ _

__Sam sighs, content, as Dean finally breaks their kiss and settles back on the bed. His big brother lies on the flat of his back, fidgeting to get the pillow just right under his head, and then he lifts his arm as an invitation for Sam to move in close._ _

__Sam just looks at him a moment, still in awe of his big brother’s love, his bravery and his heart, and the taste of them both in Sam’s mouth. Dean raises an eyebrow in question and Sam’s face splits into a grin in response. He ducks his head because he feels silly but he quickly turns onto his left side, tucking himself in along his brother’s body, and he carefully places his right arm across Dean’s stomach. His legs get tangled up with Dean’s and this is the most at home – most at peace – Sam’s been in months. He wasn’t entirely sure his heart could be put back together, in too many pieces for his own stubborn stupidity and Dean’s death, but leave it to Dean to make him whole again, even after the nightmares they’ve lived (and died, and lived again) through._ _

__“This okay?” Dean asks quietly as he covers Sam’s arm with his own, cautious for Sam’s injury. Sam nods against his chest. His shoulder is a little sore but so is his ass, and all of it feels right._ _

__It’s the longest he’s ever gone without properly eating, and he knows he’s going to have to take it slow, ease back into food gently so he doesn’t make himself sick. For now though, his belly is warm and feels full of his brother, the only thing he was really craving this whole time. He just _feels full_ , from his stomach to his heart, happy like he hasn’t been in much too long, happy like he was afraid he’d never get to be again. Only Dean gives him that. Dean is in his arms now, and a part of him is safe, deep inside him where Sam’s body can make it his own; if there’s a way for them to get closer than that, Sam doesn’t know it yet, and he’s never needed it more than he needed it tonight. _ _

__Dean shifts and it brings Sam’s thoughts back to the warm body beside him. His brother tilts his chin down and kisses at the top of Sam’s head, nosing for a moment in the sweat-damp mess of his hair, and Sam smiles against Dean’s chest. He has his big brother back, and with it his whole life._ _

__Everything between them feels new, like they’ve started over, but that seems fitting considering Dean has essentially come back to life, and brought Sam back with him._ _

__Sam feels himself getting heavy with sleep, and he doesn’t fight it. He’s certain he won’t be plagued with nightmares tonight. His worst nightmares had been made real, but that’s over now. Sam breathes easy and drifts off listening to the steady drum of his brother’s heart, the sound of his best dreams come back to life._ _

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for sticking it out, guys. Comments and kudos are love, if you feel so inclined ❤️


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